x£*'~tt/v. 


]••]• 


CHAUCE!  TO  LONGFELLOW 


LECTURES  ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE, 


GIVING     A    COMI'KKHEXSIYK     SCUYKY    OF    THE 


SAXOX  LANGUAGE; 


AND    HO\V     TO    MASTER     IT. 


WITH   CRITICAL    KEV. 


EMU  CENTURY;    SCOTCH  POETRY;    CHAUCER;    SURREY;  WYATT;    SIDNEY 

\;  MARLOWE;    SHAKESPEARE;  WKT.SYI  R;  i;i:Ar.MONT; 
K.;   SHELLEY;   BEN  JI>NSON;  MILTON;  BURNS;  HOOI:>:  GEORGE 
ELIOT;  MRS.  E.  B.  BROWNING;  MME.  in.  STAEL;  THE  BRONTE 
SISTERS;    MARGARET   FULLER;    MRS.  H.  i:.  STOWE 

AND    Till 

LONGFELLOW;    ! 


JOHN    ERASER,  A.  M. 

LATE  PKOFESSOR  Of  RHETORIC  AND  ENGLISH  I.ITEKATTRE  IN  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CHICAGO  ; 

AUTHOR  OF  "HISTORY  OF  SCOTTISH  CHAP-BOOKS,"  "ARCHIE  GASCOIGNE;  A  ROMANCE 

OF  SKYE."  "YOUTH'S  GOLDEN  CYCLH."   "HISTORY  OF  MOKMONIS.M,''  ETC. 


DONALD   ERASER   cS;  •  BLISHERS, 

'-;  Y.  ,  STREET, 

CHICAGO. 


—»£3  YOUR     INSPECTION     I  N VITED.  :=£«-•• 


CHARLES  GORDON, 

Wholesale  and  Retail  Dealer  in 


OFFICE  FURNITURE,  SALOON  FIXTURES, 

PARLOR    SUITS,    STOVES,    DESKS,    ETC..   ETC. 

STANDARD    GOODS. 

216   &  218  Randolph  St.,  Chicago. 


CORNER    FRANKLIN. 


Cash  or  Easy  Payments. 


Loivest  Prices. 


CHAS.  GOSSAGE  &  CO 


STATE  &  WASHINGTON  STS. 


— *-!•  SECOND    FLOOR,  ••— •- 

REPLETE    WITH    DESIRABLE    ARTICLES    FOR 


GIFTS. 


LATEST  NOVELTIES  IN 


BRIC-A-BRAC 

ALWAYS   ON    HAND. 

WALTER  C.  LYMAH.  *  *  * 


ROOM     33,     WEBER     MUSIC     HALL. 


OCSB  LIBRARY 

/- 


CHICAGO  ATHEN^UM 


A  SCHOOL  OF 


48  TO  54  DEARBORN  STREET, 


OF  SCOTLAND. 


Xhe  JXatioaal  league  aad  ooveaaat  of  ^Ocotlaad. 

The  Document  which  was  signed  in  Greyfriars  Churchyard,  Edinburgh, 

in  1638.     In  all  respects  a  fac-simile,  (lithographed  by  Gellalty 

of  Edinburgh.)     It  measures  3  feet  by  2  feet  6  inches. 


ORDER    AT    ONCE. 


Post  Free  $2.00 


NUMBER    LIMITED. 


DONALD    FRASER, 

380    SOUTH    PAULINA    ST. 


DTTD  PELTZER, 


ABSTRACT 


85   Washington  Street, 

CHICAGO. 


(ohicago  oonservatoru, 


A   SCHOOL  OF 


anc}   ©ramafic 


REAPER   BLOCK, 

Cor.  Clark  &  Washington  Streets. 

SAMUEL   KAYZER, 


-•-»•  AGENT    FOR  •!-*- 

PROF,   JOHN    FRASER'S    instructive  and  entertaining   book 


FOR    YOUNG    AND    OLD, 


,'t 


y 


vfjvcle. 


ALSO  DEALER  IN  SCOTCH  BOOKS,  FINE  ILLUSTRATED  WORKS, 

MAGAZINES  AND  OLD  COUNTRY  PAPERS, 

C3SO    S.     3Pa.-uJ.ina,   Street,       -       -       O3a.ica.g-o, 
(ORDERS  BY  MAIL  PROMPTLY  ATTENDED  TO.) 


ROBERT  BURNS 


JOHN   FRASER,  A.  M 


FORMERLY    OF   GLASGOW    UNIVERSITY. 


With  clearer  eyes  I  saw  the  worth 

Of  life  among  the  lowly, 
The  Bible  at  his  Cotter's  hearth, 

Had  made  my  own  more  holy. 

But  who  his  human  heart  has  laid 

To  Nature's  bosom  nearer? 
Who  sweetened  toil  like  him,  or  paid 

To  love  a  tribute  dearer? 

Whittier. 


DONALD   FRASER  &  SONS,  PUBLISHERS, 

85  WASHINGTON  STREET, 

CHICAGO. 


COPYRIGHTED, 

1886, 
BY    DONALD    FRASER. 


PREFACE. 


DEAR  FRIEND  FRASER: 


159  DEARBORN  ST., 
Chicago,   January  1st,  1887. 


I  feel  unable  to  express  the  pleasure  with  which  I  received  the 
first  number  of  your  brother's  very  popular  lectures  and  do  trust  that 
they  will  meet  with  the  success  they  so  well  merit.  As  a  truly  repre- 
sentative Scotch  writer  I  think  he  stood  alone  in  this  great  city,  and  as 
a  Lecturer  it  will  be  difficult  to  get  anyone  to  fill  his  place.  Seeing 
the  forqn  the  lectures  are  in,  you  might  at  your  earliest  convenience 
issue  his  one  on  "Robert  Burns,"  as  from  the  many  talks  we  have  had 
— during  the  time  he  was  in  charge  of  the  literary  department  of  my 
office — I  know  that  Burns  was  his  favorite  poet.  Even  now  his  vivid 
description  of  the  land  of  Burns  rises  up  before  me,  as  if  painted  on 
canvas,  and  I  can  almost  see  the  small  thatched  cottage  with  its  single 
door,  two  small  windows,  and  its  "but  and  ben"  where  the  great  poet 
was  born;  with  the  auld  Kirk  O'Alloway  in  its  immediate  vicinity;  or 
standing  on  the  poet's  monument,  view  the  beautiful  scenery,  more  like 
an  Italian  than  a  Scotch  scene,  and  see  one  of  the  reasons  why  Burns's 
songs  are  so  pastoral  in  there  character;  or  listening  catch  the  low 
rumbling  sound  of  the  river  as  it  passes  through  the  "Auld  and  the 
New  Brigs  O'Ayr."  Your  brother  seemed  to  treat  Burns  in  his  home 
life,  as  if  he  was  personally  known  to  him,  and  often  have  I  listened 
as  he  told  of  the  trials  he  shared  along  with  his  father,  whom  he  sim- 
ply adored,  working  away  with  a  will,  to  make  the  barren  soil  yield  a 
return  for  the  labor  expended.  But  it  was  when  speaking  of  Burns 
as  a  poet  that  he  seemed  to  forget  himself,  in  his  anxiety  to  give  a 
proper  estimate  of  the  beaut v  of  his  verse;  quoting  song  after  song  to 
illustrate  his  meaning,  now  with  boyish  gleesomeness  singing  a  snatch 
of  "When  the  Kye  Comes  Hame,"  crooning  over  quietly,  "Ye  Banks 
and  Braes,"  all  the  while  keeping  time  with  his  foot,  or.  reciting  the  "Cot- 
tar's Saturday  Night"  with  a  pathetic  and  real  intensity  that  once  heard 
can  never  be  forgotten.  Suddenly  rising  and  taking  a  cigar  or  toothpick. 


he  would  walk  back  and  forward  quietly  chuckling  to  himself  all  the 
while;  and  then  coming  close  to  where  I  sat,  he  would  tell  of  his  own 
college  days  and  companionships,  where  Burns  was  being  continually 
sung  and  parodied  by  medical  or  clerical  students,  who  varied  it  by  tel- 
ling many  unpublished  stories  about  the  poet.  One  song  out  of  the 
many  which  he  sung,  comes  vividly  to  my  memory  even  now,  the 
more  so  as  I  got  it  written  down  at  the  time,  being  struck  with  the 
strange  rythmical  beauty  of  the  words,  as  he  sang  them  in  Latin, 

"Virent  arundines,"  etc. 

until  I  could  almost  wish  I  had  been  among  those  whose  tramp, 
tramp — reverberating  through  the  paved  court  and  quadrangle  of  the 
Old  Glasgow  College — kept  time  to  the  singing  of: 

"Green  grow  the  rashes,  O!" 

I  feel  certain  that  many  who  heard  his  lecture  on  Burns  will  be 
equally  anxious  to  get  a  copy  of  it. 

At  the  time  of  its  delivery  the  press  received  it  with  very  *highly 
eulogistic  criticisms,  all  of  which  he  received  in  his  usual  quiet  way; 
saying  that  of  all  the  praise  he  got,  that  which  he  prized  most  of  all 
was  given  at  the  close  of  this  lecture,  as  he  was  talking  to  a  small  cir- 
cle of  friends.  When  a  tall  sailor-like  man  elbowed  his  way  forward 
and  holding  out  his  hand,  said  "Man  Johnie,  but  I  am  rale  prood  o' 
ye,  I  wudna  take  a  thoosand  pound  tae  hae  missed  hearing  ye,  dae  ye 
no  ken  me  (mentioning  his  name)  I'm  frae  Lochgilphead."  But  I 
have  written  more  than  I  intended,  excuse  my  thus  lingering  and 
recalling  to  memory  what  to  me  will  always  be  an  oasis — in  the  midst 
of  my  busy  life — fragrant  with  the  memories  of  the  educational  talks 
which  your  brother  and  I  had  in  my  office.  Again  wishing  you  all 
success  and  placing  my  services  at  your  command. 

I  remain  yours  truly, 

JOHN  B. JEFFERY. 


NOTE  BY  THE  PUBLISHERS.  —  We  take  the  liberty  of  nsin ^  Mr.  John  B.  Jeffery's  letter, 
because  it  expresses  in  writing  the  desire  of  most  of  the  subscribers,  and  many  Scotch  friends  who 
know  that  this  lecture  was  the  means  of  securing  the  chair  of  English  literature  in  the  Chicago 
University. 

Whilst  in  no  way  apologizing,  we  think  it  but  fair  to  state  that  this  lecture  is  the  only  one  in  the 
series  that  seems  to  have  appeared,  in  part  at  least,  in  many  of  the  Monthlies  and  Weeklies  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic,  and  from  the  notes  in  our  possession,  we  are  led  to  the  belief  that  it  was  seldom 
delivered  in  exactly  the  same  way,  more  especially  as  the  subject  was  a  very  congenial  one.  This 
may  account  for  the  want  of  verve,  which  we  fear,  from  the  very  eulogistic  remarks  of  the  press,  and 
many  who  heard  it,  may  be  awanting. — D.  F.  &  Sons. 


LECTURE  II. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


Through  all  his  tuneful  art,  how  strong 

The  human  feeling  gushes 
The  very  moonlight  of  his  song 

Is  warm  with  smiles  and  blushes. 

Give  letter'd  pomp  to  teeth  of  Time, 

So  "Bonnie  Doon"  but  tarry, 
Blot  out  the  Epics  stately  rhyme, 

But  spare  his  "Highland  Mary." 

Whitticr. 


In  this  lecture  what  I  want  to  show  you,  is  the  picture  of  a  man, — 
a  man,  who  was  also  a  great  genius,  with  all  a  man's  faults,  a  moral 
failure  in  some  respects,  but  through  all,  in  spite  of  all,  perhaps  the 
most  splendid  specimen  literary  history  has  ever  shown,  of  sterling, 
independent,  aggressive  manhood.  I  shall  not  wait  to  tell  you  in 
detail  of  the  sorrows  and  joys,  the  stormy  and  sunshiny  incidents 
which  wove  themselves  into  the  warp  and  woof  of  his  life  in  an 
inseparable  thread  of  darkness.  The  splendor  of  the  gifts  with  which 
it  is  combined,  makes  this  gloomy  weft  only  the  more  apparent;  and 
through  all  the  brightness  and  nobleness  of  the  web  it  runs  its  dark- 
ling pattern,  its  intricate  design,  impairing  the  beauty,  diminishing  the 
greatness,  yet  adding  a  sorrowful  human  meaning,  which  touches 
while  it  humbles  the  spectator.  Circumstances  have  set  it  before  the 
world  in  such  prominence  that  to  many  it  seems  the  chief  thing  notable, 
the  first  memory  attached  to  his  name.  Almost  a  century  has  passed, 
since  in  premature  gloom  and  lurid  splendor,  the  sun  went  down  for 
him  at  noonday;  and  since  then,  the  world  has  never  ceased  to  dwell 
upon  this  warp  in  his  nature  and  stain  on  his  life. 

It  will  be  my  aim  to  present  to  you  both  sides  of  the  picture.  If 
men  of  exquisitely  sensitive  and  finely-strung  poetic  temperament,  are 


more  easily  touched  to  fine  issues  of  sorrow  or  of  wrong,  than  ordinary 
men,  so,  too,  their  moments  of  spiritual  exaltation  are  more  frequent — 
their  raptures  of  joy  more  thrilling  and  intense.  This  was  undoubtedly 
the  case  with  Burns,  and  as  I  now  attempt  briefly  to  sketch  him  as  he 
really  was,  all  that  I  ask  of  you  is  a  fair  hearing,  and  a  generous  exten- 
sion of  sympathy  to  a  brave,  brilliant,  generous  and  erring  brother, 
whose  noble  nature  was  undoubtedly  marred  by  some  great  failings, 
but  who  through  them  all  shines  forth  as  a  splendid  type  of  vigorous 
self-assertive,  independent  manhood.  Although  very  little  is  heard  of 
Burns's  lineage  yet  it  is  a  well  authenticated  fact,  that  he  was  a  direct 
descendant  of  the  noble  House  of  Argyle,  who  suffered  for  the  part 
they  had  taken  in  the  rebellion  of  '42.  The  name  Burness  or  Burns 
being  derived  from  one  of  the  estates  confiscated  from  his  forefathers. 

Previous  to  the  advent  of  Burns,  on  the  25th  January,  i759>  Scot- 
land had  been  unrepresented  in  literature  by  any  great  poet,  for  nearly 
300  years.  Anonymous  ballads  there  were,  and  fugitive  snatches  of 
song,  such  as  perhaps  no  other  nation  can  show  in  equal  abundance  and 
richness,  but  no  sustained  effort  of  individual  genius.  Scotland's  long- 
protracted  and  desperate  struggle  for  independence ;  the  bitter  rivalry  of 
kings  and  nobles;  her  constant  internal  dissensions;  the  labor  throes  of 
the  Reformation ;  the  consequent  discouragement  of  "profane"  songs 
and  art;  the  union  of  the  two  kingdoms  of  England  and  Scotland,  which 
at  first  all  but  killed  Scottish  literature,  by  attracting  the  wealth, 
nobility,  learning  and  genius  of  the  country  to  London:  all  had  con- 
spired to  discourage  and  repress  native  talent.  So  art  slumbered,  until 
Burns  arose  in  his  might  to  break  the  silence  of  three  centuries,  and 
elevate  Scotland  to  her  rightful  place  among  the  poet-mothers  of  the 
world. 

The  time  of  his  advent,  too,  was  peculiarly  favorable  to  the  devel- 
opment of  bold  and  natural  genius.  In  England,  Cowper  was  vigor- 
ously heading  the  revolt  inaugurated,  some  thirty  years  before,  by 
Thomson,  against  the  precise  and  frigid  artificialism  of  Pope,  and 
the  so-called  classical  school,  which  had  banished  nature  from  the 
field,  and,  for  the  natural  expression  of  feeling,  had  substituted  a 
poetry  of  second  intentions;  a  poetry  marked  by  pointed  antithesis,  a 
labored  and  mechanical  perfection  of  form,  a  monotonous  intellectual 
coldness,  and  much  heartless  epigram.  From  Gray  and  Thompson,  in 
part,  Burns  caught  the  infection,  and,  throwing  to  the  winds  conven- 
tional imagery  and  forms,  boldly  dared  to  be — not  Pope,  or  Dryden, 
or  Waller,  but  Robert  Burns. 


Nor  were  the  circumstances  of  his  upbringing  unfavorable  to  the 
cultivation  of  the  poetic  spirit.  Possessing  a  phenomenally  sensitive 
nature;  a  soul  that,  yEolian-harp-like,  was  responsive  to  every 
breath  of  sentiment  or  gust  of  passion:  finely  sensitive  to  the  sights 
and  sounds  of  nature,  the  sorrows  and  failures  and  joys  of  life:  he 
was  brought  up  amid  some  of  Scotland's  loveliest  scenery,  and  received 
an  education  superior  to  that  enjoyed  by  many  men  in  much  higher 
ranks  of  life.  To  such  as  have  been  in  the  habit  of  regarding  Burns 
as  the  illiterate  possessor  of  a  little  Latin  and  less  French,  this  may 
sound  strange.  But  it  is  not  French  or  Latin,  however  useful  a 
knowledge  of  these  may  be,  and  undoubtly  is,  that  furnishes  the  vital 
elements  of  a  sound  education;  but  a  thorough  grounding  in  those 
great  principles  which  underly  society,  and  regulate,  or  ought  to  regu- 
late our  relations  with  one  another  and  with  God;  united  to  a  con- 
scientious and  intelligent  study  of  a  few  works  of  pre-eminent  excel- 
lence, a  practical  knowledge  of  the  ordinary  business  and  conduct  of 
life,  the  cultivation  of  noble  and  generous  sympathies,  and  a  fair  knowl- 
edge of  the  English  language  and  mastery  of  the  art  of  composition. 
Now,  Burns  was  fortunate  in  the  possession  of  wise,  upright,  loving 
and  God-fearing  parents,  who,  like  most  Scotch  parents,  attached  the 
utmost  importance  to  a  sound,  liberal  education,  and  spared  neither 
money  nor  pains  to  insure  such  for  their  children.  Certainly,  Robert 
was  never  able  to  turn  out  Latin  or  Greek  verses,  as  many  an  Eton 
stripling  of  that  day  could,  who  yet  could  hardly  spell  his  own  name 
in  English;  but  he  was  indoctrinated  from  the  cradle  in  the  essential 
principles  of  Christianity,  and  that  of  a  less  rigid  and  hopeless  kind 
than  the  hard  and  repulsive  Calvinism  which  generally  obtained  in 
those  days;  and  he  was  so  grounded  in  the  use  of  his  native  tongue 
that  while  yet  a  boy  he  could  write  with  correctness,  fluency  and  even 
elegance.  He  had,  besides,  the  inestimable  privilege  of  a  library  that 
was  both  small  and  select.  Instead  of  being  tempted  by  a  whole 
world  of  Dime  Novels,  Sunday  School  literature,  and  Sea-Side  trash, 
he  was  forced  to  confine  himself  to  a  handful  of  books  such  as  the 
Bible,  Mason's  Collection  of  Prose  and  Verse,  A  Life  of  Hannibal, 
one  of  Wallace,  the  Spectator,  Shakespeare,  Pope,  Richardson's 
"Pamela,"  Stackhouse's  "History  of  the  Bible,"  Locke's  "Essay  on 
the  Human  Understanding,"  a  collection  of  English  anthology,  and  a 
miscellaneous  assortment  of  old  Scottish  songs  and  ballads.  He  was 
also  trained  to  habits  of  rigid  economy  and  self-denial,  and  was  deeply 
impressed  with  the  dignity  of  honest  labor,  and  the  importance  of 


8 

moral  worth.  This  certainly  was  not  a  college  education,  but  to  my 
thinking  it  was  no  unworthy  substitute,  and  happy  and  great  and  pros- 
perous would  that  nation  be,  all  of  whose  children  received  just  such 
an  education  as  did  Robert  Burns.  We  should  then  see  less  of  venal 
politicians;  of  great  cities  governed  by  the  refuse  of  the  slums,  the 
gambling  hells,  the  bucket  shops  and  the  saloons;  of  defaulting  cash- 
iers; of  grasping  and  gigantic  monopolists;  of  star-route  swindlers;  of 
the  pride  of  purse,  the  greed  of  gain,  the  worship  of  wealth  and  the 
love  of  vulgar  show,  that  are  sapping  the  foundations  of  American 
society. 

Further,  the  hard  school  of  necessity  in  which  the  Poet  was  reared 
was  no  unkindly  nurse  for  his  poetic  genius.  A  born-poet,  if  ever  in 
this  world  poet  was  born;  endowed  in  a  supreme  degree  with  the  fine 
sensibilities  which  render  the  poet  so  alive  to  every  influence  of  nature 
and  feeling;  dowered  above  most  men  with  the  "hate  of  hate,  the  scorn 
of  scorn,  and  love  of  love,"  his  youthful  mind  was  fired,  almost  from 
the  cradle,  with  the  romantic  songs  and  legends  of  his  native  land,  and 
his  mind  filled  with  images  of  the  beauty  and  freshness  and  glory  of 
nature,  as  presented  in  the  lovely  scenery  of  his  native  Ayrshire.  Had 
Burns  not  greatly  suffered  and  gone  wrong,  had  he  himself  not  endured 
the  sorrows  and  trials  attendant  upon  a  constant  struggle  to  keep  the 
wolf  from  the  door,  he  would  never  have  been  able  to  so  thoroughly 
identify  himself  with  the  suffering  poor,  as  to  voice  their  sentiments, 
aspirations,  regrets  and  griefs,  and  become  their  acknowledged  mouth 
piece  and  champion.  The  man  who  would  touch  the  deepest  springs 
of  human  feeling  and  action,  must  endure  the  difficulties  and  feel  the 
fierce  contention  of  every  struggle  he  sings. 

Despite  its  hardship  and  incessant  toil,  the  frequent  spells  of 
hypochondria  from  which  he  suffered,  Burns's  life,  until  his  father's 
death  in  1784 — when  he  himself  was  twenty-five  years  old — was  a 
happy  and  hopeful  one.  Up  to  this  time  his  heart  was  pure  and  fresh, 
his  career  unsullied  by  vice,  and  his  ambitions  wholesome  and  pure. 
The  great  comfort  of  his  existence,  the  sweetener  of  his  toil,  was  poetry. 
Following  the  plough,  and  crooning  over  to  himself  stray  snatches  of 
song,  he  was  happy — now,  it  was  some  rustic  beauty,  whom  he  had 
met  "  coming  through  the  rye";  anon  it  was  a  homeless  mouse  or 
wounded  hare;  or  again  it  was  a  simple  daisy — "wee  modest,  crimson - 
tipped  flower" — but  whatever  it  was  he  threw  round  it  the  generous 
glow  of  his  own  poetic  nature,  and  invested  it  with  fresh  meaning  and 
beauty.  One  loves  to  dwell  on  this  bright  spring  time  of  the  poet's 


life,  when  his  sole  ambition  was  to  earn  an  honest  living  and  by  and 
by,  maybe,  make  his  name  known  as  a  poet.  When  a  child  he 
cherished  this  secret  aim,  and  even  then  glorious  visions  of  a  splendid 
immortality  would  flash  at  times  across  his  mental  horizon. 

"E'en  then  a  wish,  I  mind  its  power, 
A  wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 

Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast; 
That  I  for  puir  auld  Scotland's  sake, 
Some  useful  plan  or  book  could  make. 

Or  sing  a  sang,  at  least. — 
The  rough  bur-thistle  spreading  wide 

Among  the  bearded  bear, 
I  turn'd  the  weeder-clips  aside, 

And  spared  the  symbol  dear." — 

Spared  the  thistle!  Write  some  song!  blended  patriotism  and  poetry 
— significant  of  a  future  that  was  to  give  to  the  world  a  "Scots  wha 
hae,"  and  a  "Mary  in  Heaven."  And  as  he  continued  to  plough  and 
sing,  the  stream  of  song  including  sketches  of  life  and  character  which 
have  lit  up  all  Scotland;  soft  friendly  outbursts  of  humor,  and  genial 
poetic  laughter  as  sweet  as  silver  bells;  and  mingled  with  these,  such 
tender  rural  philosophies,  such  pathetic  thoughtfulness,  pity,  and  char- 
ity as  go  direct  to  the  heart.  It  was  his  very  climax  of  life.  Every 
influence  around  him  entered  into  his  soul.  Its  doors  stood  open  day 
and  night  ready  to  receive  everything  that  was  weak  and  wanted  suc- 
cor, and  ready  to  be  moved  by  everything  that  was  lovely  and  noble. 
In  all  the  world  there  was  not  a  created  thing  which  he  shut  out  from 
his  sympathy:  from  the  "cowering  beastie"  in  the  fields,  to  auld 
Nickie-ben  in  "yon  lowin'  heugh" — he  felt  for  all.  He  is  like  a  God 
in  his  tender  thought,  in  his  yearning  for  all  their  welfare. 

And  so  his  life  continues  to  broaden  and  deepen,  and  as  he  follows 
the  plough  he  scatters  far  and  wide  rich  seeds  of  poetry  and  thought, 
which  in  after  years  will  gladden  and  rejoice  the  hearts  of  millions. 
And  thus  the  young  ploughman  sweeps  on,  playing  upon  his  readers' 
hearts  as  upon  a  magical  instrument,  now  rolling  deep  in  thunderous 
swells  of  feeling,  now  breathing  a  sweetness  akin  to  tears.  It  is 
impossible  to  follow  him  through  all  those  manifold  notes,  through 
this  flood  of  harmony,  at  once  exciting  and  soothing,  without  the  warm- 
est sympathy.  We  know  these  poems  half  by  heart.  Wet,  some  of 
them,  with  tears,  and  some  also,  red  and  warm  with  the  heart's  blood 
of  the  great  nature  that  rushed  to  precipitate  itself  into  every  song  he 


IO 


wrote, — songs  that  thus  palpitate  and  quiver  and  throb  as  if  they 
were  in  very  deed  the  great  heart  itself,  whose  passionate  yearnings 
they  so  daringly  express.  We  change,  as  the  poet  bids  us,  and  are 
grave  and  gay,  and  laugh  and  weep  like  so  many  fools,  without  pause 
or  intermission,  while  we  turn  from  page  to  page.  Where  did  he  get 
this  heavenly  gift?  But  anyhow,  he  exercised  it  while  ploughing 
and  reaping,  and  leading  coals  along  the  country  roads,  and  draining 
the  clayey  barren  fields. 

From  1784,  when  his  father  died,  the  clouds  rapidly  deepened  around 
him,  until  two  years  later  his  circumstances  grew  so  desperate  that  he 
packed  up  and  was  on  the  eve  of  sailing  for  Jamaica.  He  had  even 
taken  out  his  passage,  when  an  event  occurred  that  changed  the  whole 
current  of  his  life.  This  was  the  publication  of  a  little  collection  of  his 
Poems,  which  was  received  with  an  enthusiasm  that  lifted  their  author 
at  one  bound  into  the  foremost  ranks  of  ^fame,  and  held  out  tempting 
visions  of  future  glory  and  profit.  Then  it  was,  in  1786,  that  in  the 
flush  of  a  first  triumph  Burns  visited  Edinburgh,  to  be  wined  and  dined 
and  feted  and  stared  at  in  vague  wonder  and  admiration  by  its  fine  lords 
and  ladies,  its  exclusive  maccaroni  of  the  Parliament  House  and  intel- 
lectual prigs  generally,  and  finally,  when  they  had  satisfied  their 
curiosity,  and  exhausted  as  much  as  they  could  that  brilliant, young  life, 
to  be  coldly  dropped,  or  thrown  aside  like  a  squeezed  orange. 

To  my  mind,  much  of  the  tragedy  of  poor  Burns's  life  is  due  to 
the  manner  in  which  he  was  alternately  petted  and  'cut'  by  the  upper 
classes.  Even  in  Mauchline  the  condescending  friendship  of  the  local 
'writer'  proved  the  reverse  of  beneficial,  and  by  fanning  Burns's  pride, 
and  contempt  of  social  distinctions  in  the  presence  of  genius,  fostered 
his  growing  discontent  and  aggressive  arrogance  and  independence. 

He  was  nobly  qualified,  nobly  trained  for  his  true  office,  which  lay 
among  that  class  broadly  and  naturally  entitled  "the  common  people," 
— the  same  who  crowded  the  hillsides  and  clustered  about  the  shores 
of  the  Lake  in  Galilee,  listening — when  their  betters  did  not  care  to 
listen. 

Burns  was  their  born  exponent  in  his  day,  their  minstrel,  their  pro- 
phet; but  the  moment  his  head  appeared  above  the  level,  and  those 
frank  fervid  eyes,  aglow  with  the  poet's  passion  of  surprised  delight  in 
the  newness  and  loveliness  of  all  he  saw,  the  world,  that  is  to  say,  the 
Edinburgh  world,  beheld,  stared,  wondered,  and  asked  itself  what  to 
do?  This  strange  apparition  was  like  an  unexpected  visitor  at  the  door. 
Of  course  he  had  to  be  admitted  somehow.  The  conventional  super- 


II 

stition  which  is  just  strong  enough  to  keep  common  minds  in  awe,  and 
extort  those  ceremonial  observances  of  respect  to  genius  in  which  sup- 
erstition finds  refuge — made  it  inevitable  that  when  once  the  man  be- 
came visible,  he  should  be  made  to  mount  up  higher,  at  least  for  the 
moment,  and  to  sit  down  at  the  master's  table.  And  the  young  man 
went  up  with  his  glowing  eyes,  expecting  to  find  everything  there  that 
imagination  paints  of  noble  and  graceful  and  refined — and  found  a 
flutter  of  small-talk,  the  gossip  of  a  clique,  the  cleverness  of  local 
malice,  instead  of  that  feast  of  reason  and  flow  of  soul  which  fancy  had 
looked  for. 

Mightily  pleased,  no  doubt,  were  the  patrons  with  this  celestial 
slave  they  had  gotten,  this  Samson  whom  they  poked  in  his  big  ribs, 
and  made  to  stretch  out  his  muscles  for  their  admiration — till  the 
moment  came  when  they  had  enough  of  him,  and  required  no  more. 
This  natural  inevitable  process  ruined  Burns's  life, and  broke  his  heart; 
and  it  seemed  for  one  terrible  moment  as  if  it  might  ruin  his  work  too. 
But  happily  genius  has  better  guards  than  those  that  fall  to  the  lot  of 
mere  humanity,  and  the  poet  broke  his  bondage;  the  poet — but  not  the 
man. 

A  second  edition  of  his  poems  was  issued  in  1787,  and  altogether 
Burns  realized  over  £600  from  their  sale,  one-third  of  which  he 
gave  to  his  brother  Gilbert  to  assist  him  in  his  farming.  Wearied  of 
the  brilliant  though  unsatisfactory  hospitalities  of  the  Scotch  metropolis, 
which  he  had  bewildered  and  dazzled  by  his  brilliant  wit,  and  mingled 
independence  and  modesty  of  demeanor,  Burns  left  Edinburgh  for 
Mossgiel  in  June  1787,  only  to  return  to  the  metropolis  in  the  winter 
of  the  same  year  to  settle  up  accounts  with  his  publishers.  With  part 
of  the  proceeds  he  stocked  and  entered  upon  a  small  and  beautifully 
situated,  but  sterile  farm,  called  Ellisland,  on  the  banks  of  the  Nith, 
six  miles  from  Dumfries.  Here,  with  his  wife  and  family  he  settled 
down,  but  not  for  long — the  iron  had  already  entered  his  soul.  He  had 
tasted  of  the  perilous  cup  of  enchantment  proffered  him  in  the  intellec- 
tual salons  of  Edinburgh,  had  felt  the  keen  delight  of  crossing  his 
sword  with  intellectual  giants  and  wits — had  experienced  the  feverish 
transports  of  popular  applause,  and  the  excitement  of  fashionable  life; 
and  the  incessant,  commonplace  toil  and  hum-drum  monotony  of  a 
farmer's  existence  became  insupportable.  He  neglected  his  farm,  a  bad 
one  even  in  the  best  of  hands,  and  finally  was  forced  to  leave  it.  He 
was  appointed  a  gauger — to  him,  surely  one  of  the  most  uncongenial 
positions  possible.  His  new  duties  threw  him  more  and  more  into 


12 

company  which  he  should  have  shunned.  Wherever  he  went  every 
door  was  open,  and  the  wine-glass  liberally  forced  into  his  hands.  His 
splendid  wit  and  conversational  powers,  his  brilliant  reputation,  and  the 
popularity  of  his  songs,  made  him  only  too  welcome  in  hall  and  hut, 
and  he  drank  often  and  deep.  At  the  same  time  it  is  but  fair  to  add 
that  he  very  rarely  got  drunk,  and  not  one  of  his  many  Dumfries 
acquaintances  could  say  they  had  ever  seen  him  intoxicated. 

The  race  did  not  last  long.  In  1791  Burns  gave  up  his  farm  at 
Ellisland,  and  removed  into  a  small  house  at  Dumfries.  There  he 
lived  five  years — and  died.  Through  all  this  time  he  was,  to  use  a 
homely  phrase,  burning  the  candle  at  both  ends.  He  rode  fast  and  far, 
and  attended  diligently  to  all  the  duties  of  his  vocation.  He  poured 
fourth  floods  of  song — songs  full  of  passion  and  fervor — and  which 
were  not  mere  creations  of  the  brain,  but  commemorated  an  amount  of 
agreeable  intercourse  with  his  fellow-creatures  which  must  have  occu- 
pied no  small  portion  of  his  time.  He  wrote  numerous  letters;  he 
entered  warmly,  sometimes  too  warmly,  into  politics;  he  often  spent 
half  the  night  after  this  active  employment  of  the  day  in  merry  com- 
panies, of  which  he  was  the  inspiration,  and  where  his  talk  was  more 
fascinating  than  the  wine — which  flowed  freely  enough  all  the  same. 
And  into  all  these  multifarious  occupations  he  rushed  with  the  impet- 
uosity and  unity  of  his  nature,  doing  nothing  by  halves.  He  threw 
himself  into  Thomson's  book  of  songs  with  zeal  as  great  as  if  it  had 
been  the  only  work  he  had  in  hand;  and  withal,  neither  pleasure  nor 
poetry  prevented  him  from  doing  his  work  as  an  exciseman  with  the 
most  punctilious  exactitude.  And  Thomson  accepted  the  songs,  and 
was  easily,  very  easily  convinced  that  the  author  wanted  no  remuner- 
ation; and  all  the  gentlemen  who  had  known  him,  and  did  know  him, 
and  to  some  of  whom  he  had  even  told  his  hopes  and  wishes,  stood  by, 
not  even  helping  him  on  to  be  a  supervisor,  the  most  modest  bit  of 
promotion. 

Meanwhile  he  did  his  humble  work  with  less  and  less  hope,  and 
tried  his  best  to  get  such  good  as  was  possible  out  of  the  dregs  of  his 
broken  life.  Much  gentle  and  kind  domestic  virtue  lingered  about  him 
to  the  end,  notwithstanding  all  his  vagaries.  He  would  help  his 
boys  to  learn  their  lessons,  and  read  poetry  with  them,  directing  their 
childish  taste;  and  for  years  there  might  be  seen  of  an  afternoon  by  any 
chance  passer-by,  in  a  little  back  street  in  Dumfries,  through  the  ever- 
open  door,  one  of  the  greatest  of  British  poets,  sitting  reading,  with 
half-a-dozen  noisy  children  about,  and  their  mother  busy  with  a  house- 


'3 

wife's  ordinary  labor.  This,  I  say,  was  visible  to  everybody  who 
chanced  to  pass  that  way ;  and  the  days  ran  on  quietly,  and  the  world 
grew  used  to  the  sight,  and  it  never  seems  to  have  occurred  to  any 
one,  how  many  blockheads  had  comfortable  libraries  to  maunder  in, 
while  this  man — sole  of  his  race  in  Scotland,  and  almost  in  the  kingdom, 
for  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  were  still  little  more  than  boys — had 
neither  quiet  nor  retirement  possible.  With  an  inconceivable  passive 
quiet  the  good  people  went  and  came,  and  took  it  as  the  course  of 
nature.  A  little  later  they  were  proud  of  having  seen  it;  in  the  mean- 
time it  moved  them  not  an  inch.  Neither  would  it  now,  were  it  all 
done  over  again. 

There  is  one  pathetic  scene  still,  which  appears  to  us  out  of  the 
mists  before  death  and  peace  came  to  end  all.  The  story  is  told  by  a 
young  country  gentleman,  who  rode  into  Dumfries  on  a  fine  summer 
evening,  to  attend  a  ball,  and  saw  Burns  walking  by  himself  down  the 
side  of  the  street,  while  various  county  people,  drawn  together  by  the 
evening's  entertainment,  were  shopping  or  walking  on  the  other. 

"The  horseman  dismounted  and  joined  Burns,  who,  on  his  propos- 
ing to  him  to  cross  the  street,  said,  'Nay,  nay,  my  young  friend,  that's 
all  over  now;'  and  quoted,  after  a  pause,  some  verses  of  Lady  Grizel 
Baillie's  pathetic  ballad : — 

"  '  His  bonnet  stood  ance  fu'  fair  on  his  broo, 
His  auld  ane  looked  better  than  mony  ane's  new, 
But  now  he  lets't  wear  any  way  it  will  hing, 
And  casts  himsel  dowie  upon  the  corn  bing. 

Oh  were  we  young,  as  we  ance  hae  been, 

We  suld  have  been  galloping  down  on  yon  green. 

And  linking  it  ower  the  lily-white  lea, 

And  werena  my  heart  licht  I  would  dee.'  " 

It  seems  impossible  to  conceive  that  such  a  story  could  have  been 
invented.  To* show  that  his  forlorn  heart  was  still  "  licht,"  God  help 
him!  Burns  took  the  young  man  home  and  made  him  merry.  What 
words  these  are!  and  with  what  unspeakable  meaning  they  must  have 
fallen  from  the  poet's  lips.  Sad  courage,  endurance,  gaiety,  and  pro- 
found untellable  despair — not  any  great  outburst,  but  an  almost  tran- 
quil ordinary  state  of  mind.  "  Werena  my  heart  licht  I  would  dee" — 
it  is  the  sentiment  of  all  his  concluding  years. 

And  thus  he  died — thirty-seven  years  old — worn  out.  His  old  ter- 
ror of  a  jail  came  over  him  again  like  a  spectre  at  the  end,  but  he  died 
owing  no  man  anything,  stern  in  his  independence  to  the  last.  Yes, 


H 

this  worthless,  dissolute,  reckless  Bohemian — this  profligate  and  spend- 
thrift, who  had  to  support  a  large  family  and  his  vices  on  less  than 
$400  a  year, — died  owing  no  man  anything. 

He  died  cheerfully  and  manfully  like  a  Christian;  though  with  his 
heart  rent  asunder  by  fears  for  the  helpless  children  whom  he  was 
leaving  behind  him.  And  the  moment  he  was  dead  his  friends  came 
and  buried  him;  and  red-coated  splendors  lined  the  streets,  and  a  cer- 
tain noble  officer  who  would  not  in  his  lifetime  permit  the  gauger  to 
be  introduced  to  him,  played  mourner  to  the  dead  poet.  Strange 
satire,  enough  to  tempt  devils  to  laughter,  but  men  to  very  different 
feelings.  And  while  there  was  scarce  a  meal  left  in  the  penniless 
house,  the  bells  tolled  and  the  shops  were  closed,  and  a  great  procession 
swept  through  the  streets,  and  volleys  were  fired  over  the  grave  of 
him  who  had  been  carried  out  of  that  home  of  poverty.  What  a 
change  all  in  a  moment! — because  he  was  dead,  and  neglect  or  honor, 
help  or  desertion,  could  affect  him  nevermore. 

And  then,  crowning  mockery,  they  removed  the  humble  but  loving 
tribute  of  affection  which  his  wife  had  placed  over  his  grave,  and 
erected  in  its  stead  a  costily  and  imposing  mausoleum.  Verily,  he  had 
asked  for  bread,  and  they  gave  him  a  stone.  Nay,  not  content  with 
this,  the  very  house  in  which  he  was  born,  in  a  sort  of  spirit  of 
devilish  mockery  and  as  an  everlasting  reminder  of  poor  Burns's  fail- 
ings, was  turned  into  a  tavern  for  the  sale  of  whiskey  and  rum. 

Burns's  stormily  splendid  life  is  faithfully  reflected  in  his  verse. 
Both  are  marked  by  passionate  intensity  and  an  earnest  spirit  of  truest 
humanity.  Burns  was  in  all  things  intensely  human,  and  at  the  same 
time,  if  you  understand  me,  intensely  divine.  A  passionate  sympathy 
with  nature  and  his  fellowmen,  throbs  and  leaps  through  every  line. 
He  never  does  anything  by  halves.  '  His  grief  shakes  the  soul  to  pieces ; 
his  laughters  make  the  empyrean  ring.  He  gives  himself  to  the  feel- 
ing of  the  hour  with  an  all-absorbing  abandon  that  drained  his  vital 
energies,  and  induced  premature  exhaustion.  He  compressed  the 
emotions  of  an  ordinary  lifetime  into  a  day;  years  of  commonplace 
emotion  he  lived  in  an  hour.  Did  he  love?  He  dowered  the  object 
of  his  passions  with  all  the  splendor  of  heaven  and  earth,  clothed  her 
in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars,  and  compelled  the  universe  to  pay 
tribute  to  her  loveliness?  Did  he  hate  or  scorn?  How  withering  the 
retort — how  annihilating  the  sarcasm !  Did  he  assume  a  milder  aspect 
and  attune  his  lyre  to  holier  strains?  What  can  surpass  the  ineffable 
serenity  and  beauty  and  calm  that  turns  a  "Cottar's  Saturday  Night" 


into  a  very  heaven  below,  all  the  more  serene  and  beautiful  when  con- 
trasted with  the  usually  fiery  and  turbulent  passion  of  his  genius.  His 
range  was  perhaps  not  wide,  but  oh!  how  powerful.  He  held  at  com- 
mand the  spring  of  tears  and  laughter, — now  dissolving  the  soul  in 
grief,  as  he  murmurs  a  hymn  of  praise  and  regret  to  his  "Mary  In 
Heaven;"  now  shaking  the  world  with  inextinguishable  laughter  with 
his  "Dr.  Hornbrook"  or  "Jolly  Beggars;"  anon,  thrilling  them  with 
patriotic  fire,  and  creating  heroes  out  of  clod-poles  with  a  "Scots  wha 
hae;"  or  causing  their  knees  to  tremble  and  their  hearts  to  sink  within 
them,  with  the  horrors  and  diablerie  of  "Tarn  O'  Shanter." 

But  it  is  when  he  sings  of  Love  and  Liberty  that  the  notes  of  Burns 
ring  loudest  and  sweetest  and  clearest.  From  boyhood  his  heart  was 
most  responsive  to  the  claims  of  Beauty  and  of  Country.  His  lines  to 
"Nancy"  furnished  a  motto  for  Byron,  and  were  in  Scott's  judgment, 
worth  a  hundred  romances. 

"Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 

Ae  farewell,  alas,  for  ever! 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 

Never  met,  or  never  parted, 

We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted." 

Or  take,  in  a  different  and  softer  strain,  the  world-familiar  lines  on 
"Afton  Water": 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  thro'  the  glen, 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear, 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighboring  hills, 
Far  mark'd  with  the  courses  of  dear,  winding  rills, 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow; 
There  oft  as  mild  ev'ning  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 


i6 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 
As  gathering  sweet  flow 'rets  she  stems  thy  clear  wave. 

Flow,  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

This  is  simply  perfect, — so  perfect  in  its  rounded  peacefulness  and 
purity  that  it  seems  almost  sacrilege  to  read  it  aloud.  It  is  one  of 
those  poems  we  like  to  croon  over  to  ourselves,  as  if  fearful  that  the 
invasion  of  even  the  gentlest  sound  would  disturb  its  perfect  repose. 

But  more  moving  still,  because  touching  deeper  springs  of  feeling 
— the  deepest  of  which  the  suffering  human  heart  is  capable — is  the 
equally  well-known  song  "The  Banks  O'Doon;"  in  which  the  old,  old 
contrast — old  as  time  itself — is  drawn  by  the  sorrow-stricken  soul, 
between  the  awful,  changeless,  terrible  impassivity  of  nature,  and  the 
ever  varying  tragedies  of  the  human  heart.  Take  the  first  verse  and 
the  last, — 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Boon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair! 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
An'  I  sae  weary,  fu'  o'  care! 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree; 
And  my  fause  lover  stole  my  rose, 

But  ah !  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

Surely  never  has  the  despair  of  a  broken-hearted  and  forsaken 
woman,  who  had  loved  not  wisely  but  too  well,  been  more  feelingly 
expressed  than  in  these  last  lines,  in  which  we  seem  to  catch  the  last 
dispairing  wail  of  the  breaking  heart: 

"And  my  fause  lover  stole  my  rose, 
But  ah!  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

But  Burns's  love  songs  are  not  all  of  this  melancholy  cast.  Many 
of  them,  indeed  most  of  them,  are  joyous  and  clear  as  the  lilt  of  the 
skylark;  and,  merely  to  read  them,  is  to  renew  one's  youth,  and  feel 
the  blood  tingle  as  in  the  days  "when  the  bloom  was  on  the  rye." 
Ah,  me,  what  times  were  these  we  used  to  have,  when  we  made  the 
welkin  ring  with: 


'7 

"Green  grow  the  rashes,  O, 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ; 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spent. 
Were  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O." 

And  were  they  not  the  sweetest  hours?  To  me,  and  I  trust  to  you, 
they  were, — aye  and  the  best;  and  to  many  a  way-worn  and  sorrow- 
beaten  man  the  influence  of  these  hours  has  continued  throughout  the 
years — aye,  even  to  the  gates  of  death — to  soften  the  heart,  and  sweeten 
and  ennoble  life.  There  is  not  only  true  poetry  but  sound  philosophy 
in  the  laughter-catching  verse: 

"There's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  han', 

In  ev'ry  hour  that  passes,  O; 
What  signifies  the  life  o'  man, 
An*  twere  na  for  the  lasses,  O." 

Little  wonder  that  the  poet, — turning  his  back  for  a  brief  moment 
on  the  vexations  of  an  exciseman's  life,  the  frown  of  fortune  and  the 
coldness  of  the  great, — cries  out  in  rapture. 

"But  gie  me  a  canny  hour  at  e'en, 
My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O; 
An'  warly  cares,  an'  warly  men, 
May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,  O. 

And   then  comes  in   again  the  soul-inspiring  chorus: 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O; 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O; 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spent. 

Were  spent  among  the  lasses,  O!" 

Akin  in  spirit,  to  these  joyous  love-lilts  are  Burns's  Bacchanalian 
ditties.  I  am  not  now  talking  of  their  ethics.  Poets  of  all  ages  and 
nations  have  sung  in  praise  .of  Love  and  Wine,  and  in  mentioning 
these  of  Burns  I  wish  to  regard  them  simply  as  works  of  art.  As 
such  they  are  unsurpassed  in  any  language.  I  look  upon  "The  Happy 
Trio,"  as  the  finest  jovial  song  in  literature. 

"O,  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut, 

And  Rob  and  Allan  cam'  to  see; 
Three  blither  hearts,  that  lee-lang  night, 
Ye  wad  na  find  in  Christendie. 

CHORUS. — We  are  na  fou,  we're  na  that  fou, 

But  just  a  drappie  in  our  e'e; 
The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw, 
And  aye  we'll  taste  the  barley  bree. 


i8 

And: 

"It  is  the  moon,  I  ken  her  horn, 

That's  blinkin  in  the  lift  sae  hie; 
She  shines  sae  bright  to  wyle  us  hame, 
But,  by  my  troth,  she'll  wait  a  wee! 

Scarcely  less  vigorous  is  "John  Barleycorn,"  while  companion  love- 
songs  to  both  are  furnished  in  "Rigs  o'  Barley"  and  "Comin'  thro'  the 
Rye." 

In  the  .same  class  we  may  reckon  that  from  the  "Jolly  Beggars," 
the  chorus  of  which  runs: 

"A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected! 

Liberty's  a  glorious  feast! 
Courts  for  cowards  were  erected, 
Churches  built  to  please  the  priest." 

This  is  the  very  apotheosis  of  blackguardism;  the  veritable  war- 
cry  Ode  of  ideal  Bohemianism.  The  second  verse  which  follows  is 
sublime  in  its  lawless  audacity  and  reckless  abandon. 

"What  is  title?  what  is  treasure? 

What  is  reputation's  care? 
If  we  lead  a  life  of  pleasure, 
'Tis  no  matter  how  or  where! 

With  the  ready  trick  and  fable, 

Round  we  wander  all  the  day; 
And  at  night,  in  barn  or  stable, 

Hug  our  doxies  on  the  hay." 
*  *  * 

Then,  with  a  finger-snap  at  all  the  proprieties: 

"Life  is  all  a  variorum, 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes; 
Let  them  cant  about  decorum 
Who  have  characters  to  lose." 

Turn  we  now  from  these  lawless  strains  to  songs  more  fitted  for 
ears  polite,  and  while  we  are  in  a  lively  mood  we  may  as  well  dismiss 
the  epigrams  with  a  passing  remark.  They  are  the  poorest  of  all 
Burns's  efforts,  being  coarse  alike  in  execution  and  sentiment,  and 
wanting  in  point.  Among  the  best  are  perhaps  these  two: 

THE  BOOK-WORMS. 

"Through  and  through  the  inspired  leaves, 

Ye  maggots,  make  your  windings; 
But,  oh!  respect  his  Lordship's  taste, 
And  spare  his  golden  bindings." 


'9 

THE  PARVENUE. 

[Written  in  reply  to  the  boastings  of  an  ignorant  cox-comb,  who  was  boring  the 
company  with  an  account  of  the  many  great  people  he  had  been  visiting.] 
"No  more  of  your  titled  acquaintances  boast, 

And  in  what  lordly  circles  you've  been; 
An  insect  is  still  but  an  insect  at  most, 
Tho'  it  crawl  on  the  head  of  a  queen." 

Passing  from  his  amorous  and  social  songs,  we  come  to  the  still 
higher  and  nobler  flights,  in  which  his  passionate  love  of  Independence 
and  Freedom,  and  his  strenuous  belief  in  the  dignity  of  moral  worth, 
so  magnificently  assert  themselves.  Only  a  Scotchman  can  fully  enter 
into  the  patriotic  fervor  of  "Scots  wha  hae,"  which  sweeps  across  the 
soul  like  a  tornado  and  hurries  it  into  the  most  impassioned  spheres  of 
patriotic  enthusiasm,  but  "A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That,"  appeals  to  a 
broader  humanity,  and  will  find  a  ready  and  sympathetic  response  in 
the  hearts  of  men  of  all  nationalities  and  creeds. 

Again,  is  not  a  bugle  blast  like  "A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that"  worth 
a  library  of  the  sensuous,  affected,  erotic  fustian  that  passes  for  poetry 
now-a-days?  How  puny  and  small  does  even  Tennyson's  last 
"national  song"  sound,  beside  the  soul-thrilling  trumpet-peal  of  "Scots 
wha  hae!" 

To  have  written  two  such  songs  were  immortality  enough  for  any 
man.  Burns  has  written  many. 

I  would  willingly  dwell  upon  many  other  of  his  poems,  such  as, 
"McPherson's  Farewell,"  so  Homeric  in  its  defiant  strength,  "John 
Anderson,"  most  touching  of  connubial  lyrics,  and  though  only  two 
verses,  superior  to  Spenser's  "Epithalamion,"  that  magnificent  bridal 
ode;  "My  Bonny  Mary,"  "The  Mouse,"  "The  Daisy,"  and  such  sar- 
castic or  humorous  pieces  as  "Holy  Willie's  Prayer,"  "Duncan  Gray," 
and  above  all,  as  being  Burns's  highest  efforts,  "The  Jolly  Beggars" 
and  "Tarn  O'Shanter,"  but  time  will  not  permit,  and  at  least  the  last- 
named  is  too  familiar  to  call  for  criticism.  And  now,  it  only  remains 
to  add  a  word  or  two  as  to  Burns's  influence  upon  his  age  and  litera- 
ture. 

In  the  first  place,  to  Burns  primarily,  and  after  him  to  Scott, 
belongs  the  honor  of  having  restored  Scotland  to  her  rightful  place 
in  history  and  letters.  As  his  poems  grew  and  developed  into  full  and 
rounded  maturity,  the  veil  of  the  unknown  was  lifted,  and  all  Low- 
land Scotland,  sweet  and  cheery,  came  to  light,  as  when  the  sun  rises 
over  an  unseen  land?  Until  the  advent  of  Burns  and  Scott,  Scot- 


20 

land  was  comparatively  speaking,  a  literary  and  national  nonentity. 
She  had  dropped  from  her  place  among  the  great  producers  of  romance 
and  song.  Her  lips  were  silent;  no  poet  had  risen  to  take  up  and 
don  the  singing  robes  of  Dunbar,  the  Makar.  The  land  of  James  I., 
Henryson,  Douglas,  Lyndsay,  and  Buchanan  had  fallen  into  disrepute; 
a  thing  to  be  sneered  and  jested  at;  breeder  of  a  close-fisted,  large- 
boned,  throat-cutting,  sheep-stealing,  bare-legged,  barbarous  people, 
who  lived  on  oatmeal  and  whisky,  in  bleak,  barren  and  forbidding 
highland  fastnesses,  and  ran  about  nearly  naked.  To  sense  of  humor, 
they  were  utterly  lost.  To  get  a  joke  into  their  head  required  a  sur- 
gical operation — the  vigorous  application  of  a  cork-screw.  Even 
Smollett,  a  Scotchman,  dared  hardly  say  a  word  in  their  favor,  and 
that  crossgrained,  large-hearted  old  bear,  Dr.  Johnson,  defined  oats  as 
"an  article  of  food  for  men — in  Scotland;  for  horses — in  England." 
This  was  the  best  that  was  said  for  them  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Tweed.  The  extraordinary  revolution  of  sentiment  since  is  due 
entirely  to  the  two  poets  whose  mission  in  very  different  ways  was  to 
make  their  country  known.  Burns  was  the  first,  and  in  some  points 
he  was  very  much  the  greater.  His  revelation  was  deeper,  stronger, 
more  original  than  that  of  the  other.  It  reached  lower  down,  reveal- 
ing almost  more  than  one  nationality  in  the  warm  and  tender  light  by 
which  it  made  Scotland  visible — for  he  made  the  poor  visible  at  the 
same  time,  the  common  people,  the  universal  basis  of  society.  Hard 
must  that  man's  heart  have  been,  and  opaque  his  intellect,  who,  after 
reading  the  "Cottar's  Saturday  Night,"  could  have  looked  with  un- 
changed eyes  upon  a  cottage  anywhere.  Scotland  was  the  first  object 
of  the  revelation — but  after  all  the  world. 

"At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree. 
The  expectant  -wee  things,  toddlin,'  stacher  through 

To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flichterin'  noise  an'  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin'  bonnily, 

His  clean  hearthstane,  his  thriftie  wifies  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Does  a'  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile, 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an'  his  toil. 

"Belyve.  the  elder  bairns  came  drapping  in, 
At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun'; 
Some  ca'  the  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 
A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town: 


21 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 
In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e, 

Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a  braw  new  gown. 
Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny-fee. 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be, 

"Wi1  joy  unfeigned,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers; 
The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed,  fleet; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears; 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  shears, 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  wcel's  the  new; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 
***** 

"The  cheerfu"  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 
They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle  wide; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha -Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride: 
His  bonnet  reverently  is  laid  aside. 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an'  bare; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care; 
And  'Let  us  worship  God?  he  says,  with  solemn  air." 

Again,  though  this  is  a  minor  point,  when  Burns  rose,  the  Scottish 
Doric,  so  rich  in  poetry  and  humor,  was  rapidly  dying  out.  The  use 
of  it  was  accounted  vulgar.  Even  Burns  himself  was  implored,  almost 
on  bended  knees,  by  eminent  scholars  and  poets  to  employ  modern 
English.  But,  though  the  man  half  consented,  the  poet  remained  firm, 
and  we  are  deeply  thankful  for  it,  for  Burns  is  never  at  ease  when 
using  English.  Most  of  his  non-Doric  poems  are  feeble  and  stilted 
In  this  way  many  most  poetic,  musical,  expressive  and  humorous  words 
and  phrases  have  been  preserved,  some  of  which  have  since  been  in- 
corporated with  the  language.  Of  such  are:  airt,  anent,  auld  lang  syne? 
bicker,  bien,  birl,  brae,  busk,  bonnie,  caller,  canny,  cantie,  cozie,  couthie, 
crone,  croon,  dirl,  dool,  dour,  dowre,  drumly,  eyrie,  ferlie,  fey,  gloam- 
ing* gowan,  ingle-side,  leal,  lift  (the  sky),  lin,  lyart,  malison,  mirk, 
rowan,  raid,  skaith,  slogan,  sonsie,  spate,  swirl,  thud,  tryst,  wraith  and 
wee. 

But  the  great  boon  Burns  conferred  upon  English  Literature  was 
in  giving  the  deathblow  to  the  sickly  sentimentalism  and  affected  style 
of  the  followers  of  Pope,  and  restoring  nature  to  Poetry.  He  spoke 
directly  from  the  heart  and  to  the  heart,  and  by  his  naturalness,  fresh- 


22 

ness  and  vigor,  made  the  stilted  and  unemotional  language  of  the  so- 
called  Classical  poets  sound  ridiculous. 

As  to  the  charges  brought  against  Burns,  that  much  of  his  life  and 
writings  has  exercised  a  demoralizing  influence,  they  are  hardly  worth 
refutation.  Side  by  side,  in  nearly  every  Scottish  household  all  over 
the  world,  will  be  found  the  Bible  and  Burns,  and  I  have  yet  to  learn 
that  the  former  is  less  reverently  studied  to-day  than  it  was  prior  to 
Burns's  time.  The  smutches  upon  his  page  are  few  and  insignificant, 
being  of  that  broad  and  open  kind  which  stains  so  much  more  deeply 
the  pages  of  Chaucer,  while  the  errors  of  his  life  stand  as  beacon-lights 
to  warn  men  off  the  perilous  reefs  and  shoals  on  which  poor  Burns 
made  shipwreck  of  his  character  and  life.  If  he  sinned  deeply ;  deeply 
and  bitterly  did  he  repent  and  suffer;  and  surely  if  ever  excuse  could  be 
made  for  man,  it  is  for  him.  Cursed  from  birth  with  periodical  fits  of 
profound  hypochondria;  dowered  with  the  perilous  sensibility  of  genius 
— keenly  alive  to  the  sorrows  as  well  as  the  joys  of  life;  animated  by 
over-mastering  impulses  and  masterful  passions;  living  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  cant  and  ultra-calvinism  from  which  all  the  finer  instincts 
and  generous  impulses  of  his  nature  revolted;  raised  at  a  bound  from 
obscurity  and  poverty  to  the  throne  (vacant  for  three  centuries)  of  Scot- 
tish song;  feted  and  caressed  and  made  much  of  by  lords  and  ladies, 
and  the  dilettanti  of  Edinburgh,  then  coldly  dropped  like  a  disused 
glove,  to  be  buffeted  about  by  fresh  misfortunes;  appointed  exciseman 
and  having  dangerous  hospitalities  thrust  upon  him  at  every  turn;  his 
proud  spirit  rebelling  against  the  inequalities  of  fortune,  and  the 
insults  of  the  great;  hypochondria  constantly  hovering  over  him,  and 
driving  him  to  seek  refuge  from  himself  in  the  pleasures  of  company; 
— was  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  went  astray?  And  yet,  we  know 
for  a  certainty,  that  all  the  duties  of  his  office  were  punctually  dis- 
charged; and  though  receiving  only  a  pittance  by  way  of  income  he 
died  in  no  man's  debt.  In  no  man's  debt!  Nay,  leaving  every  man 
in  debt  to  him, — a  debt  which  humanity  will  continue  to  owe 

"As  long  as  the  heart  hath  sorrows, 
As  long  as  life  hath  woes." 

It  should  be  borne  in  mind  too,  that  public  opinion  and  customs 
have  changed  radically  during  the  last  hundred  years.  In  Burns's 
time  drinking  was  looked  upon  as  a  social  virtue;  the  capacity  to  drink 
as  a  sort  of  criterion  of  manhood.  Everybody  drank;  and  if  the  church 
beadle  could  not  swear  he  had  seen  the  minister  drunk,  it  was  because 


23 

he  himself  had  been  always  blin'  fou'  ere  his  Reverence  had  begun  to 
warm  to  his  toddy.  Then,  again,  the  prevailing  creed  of  those  days, 
held  Scotland  in  an  iron  and  unrelenting  grasp,  and  "Holy  Willie's 
Prayer,"  then  considered  blasphemous  would  hardly  be  thought  too 
extreme  by  many  modern  preachers,  even  among  those  who  are  con- 
sidered orthodox. 

It  is  easy  for  him  who  has  never  been  tempted  to  throw  the  first 
stone;  easy  for  him  who  lapped  in  luxury,  can  look  down  from  lofty 
lotus-beds  of  ease  upon  the  sorrowing,  suffering,  toiling  poor  to  con- 
demn such  as  Burns  for  miserable  sinners,  and  thank  God  they  are  not 
as  he.  But  surely  no  man  or  woman,  who  knows  what  it  is  to  be 
tempted  and,  it  may  be,  to  fall,  will  refuse  to  poor  Burns  the  indul- 
gence he  craves  for  others  in  the  Christian  lines: 

"Then  gently  scan  your  brother  Man, 

Still  gentler  sister  Woman; 
Tho'  they  may  gang  a  little  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human; 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  Why  they  do  it; 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far,  perhaps,  they  rue  it." 

But  apart  from  these  and  similar  considerations  we  are  content  to 
let  his  poetry  be  Burns'  sole  apology,  Like  his  character  it  is  marred 
by -many  defects.  Much  of  it  is  puerile,  some  of  it  inartistic,  a  very 
small  portion  indecent.  As  in  social  intercourse  he  sometimes  displayed 
want  of  tact,  and  the  obtrusive  brusqueness  of  a  proud  spirit  desirous 
of  asserting  its  dignity,  so  his  verse  is  often  defaced  with  bitter  taunts 
and  epithets,  peculiarly  adapted  for  widening  and  deepening  the  already 
too  wide  gulf  which  separates  the  poor  and  the  wealthy.  But  making 
due  allowance  for  all  his  faults,  what  a  splendid  legacy  has  he  not 
bequeathed  to  Scotland  and  the  world !  His  is  a  name  to  conjure  with 
among  his  countrymen  the  wide  world  over.  A  verse  of  "Auld  Lang 
Syne"  will  obtain  for  you  an  easy  entrance  into  a  Scotchman's  house, 
whether  it  be  a  thatched  biggin'  in  the  wilds  of  Morven,  a  canvass 
tent  in  India,  or  a  brown-stone  front  in  San  Francisco.  It  is  an  open 
sesame  wherever  you  go.  The  workman  as  he  sweats  at  his  daily 
toil,  looks  his  employer  in  the  face  and  remembers  that  "The  rank  is 
but  the  guinea  stamp,  A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that."  Young  Jockie, 
the  day's  work  done,  as  he  dons  his  Sunday  best  and  steps  blithely  out 
to  keep  his  tryst  with  Maggie,  hums  softly  to  himself: 


24 

"O"  a'  the  airts  the  win'  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  loe  the  West, 
For  there  the  bonny  lassie  lives, 

The  lass  that  I  loe  best;" 

And  Maggie,  whose  tell-tale  blushes  betray  her,  secretly  meets  her 
mother's  reproaches  with  the  familiar  query — 

"Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Comin"  thro'  the  rye, 
Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body 

Need  a  body  cry?" 

Grown  up,  and  in  their  turn  surrounded  by  toddlin'  little  ones,  the 
faithful  wife  can  comfort  her  husband — her  Jo,  to  use  the  tender  Scot- 
tish synonym,  which  blends  both  husband  and  lover  in  one  tender 
word — with  the  touching  lines: 

John  Anderson,  my  Jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 
And  monie  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither; 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot 

John  Anderson,  my  Jo." 

Could  anything  be  more  beautiful — beautiful  with  a  pathos  that  is 
almost  painful  in  its  intensity — a  pathos  that  lies  too  deep  for  tears. 
In  a  few  lines  he  draws  a  picture  of  ideal  married  life  that  summons 
up  a  whole  world  of  pure  and  lovely  and  tender  associations,  and  we 
see  as  with  the  naked  eye,  the  brave  young  lad  and  lass  starting  out  in 
life,  breasting  the  hill  bravely  together,  and  then  in  the  sunset  of  a 
beautiful  life,  slowly,  wearily  but  quietly  glad,  tottering  down  the  slope, 
hand  in  hand,  as  all  through  life  they  have  been  heart  in  heart,  to  the 
little  God's  acre,  where — life's  fitful  fever  over — they  sleep  together  at 
the  foot.  With  these  lines  still  in  your  ears,  its  pathos  fluttering  at 
your  heart,  can  any  one  be  surprised  to  learn  that  our  own  great, 
gentle-hearted  poet  Longfellow  once  told  the  writer  that  of  all  poets 
— and  he  had  read  and  studied  all — Robert  Burns  nestled  most  closely 
to  his  heart? 


S.  W.  HALL 


MANUFACTURER    OF    THE 


N.  E.  GERRY  OVER-GAITERS, 


Order  sample  pair  Boy's  Waterproof  Knee  Pants,  $5.00  to  $6.50. 


LADIES' 

CHILDREN'S 

AND    GENTS 

LEGGIHS. 

In  Cloth,  Velvet,  Cord. 

LEATHER  AND 
WATERPROOF  GOODS. 


Riding  Leggins, 
Long  Hunting  Leggins, 
Short       " 
Bicycle  " 


AND 


Waterproof 


TO    BUTTON. 


See  our  Over  Gaiter  and  Leggins  to  lace  with  the  Alcott  Champion  Tie. 


WHOLESALE    AND    TO    ORDER. 


Send  for  Illustrated  Catalogue. 


©ffiee, 

157   Dearborn  Street, 


CHICAGO. 


PROF.  ERASER'S  LECTURES 

On  Sale  at  all  the  Leading  Book  Stores, 

Price   Qi)  cenf&  eac^. 


Any  of  the  following  books  (just  published  )  will  be  sent  along  with  one 
copy  of  LECTURE  ON  LITERATURE,  post-paid,  for  One  Dollar. 


No,  1,   The  Life  of  Saint  Andrew,  by  Peter  Ross, 

In  one  vol.  Crown  8  vo. 


No.  2.   Prof.  H.  M.  Soper's  "Elocutionary  Readings." 

330  pp.  Cloth. 


No.  3.   The  Moralist  and  the  Theatre,  by  Otto  Peltzer. 

Embracing  a  brief  History  of  the  Stage  in  its  relation  to 
the  Church,  (13  Illustrations,)  with  a  Criticism  by  PROF. 
FRASER  on  a  new  Biblical  Drama. 


Apply  at  380  So.  Paulina  Street, 

or  to  the  Publishers, 

DONALD  FRASER  &  SONS, 

85  Washington  St.,    CHICAGO. 


A     000  605  522     2 


RIPTIONS  TAKEN   FOR  ALL 


AND    MAGAZINES, 

CHAS.    MACDONALD   &  GO'S 

iferiodical  s^7\gericiLj, 

55    Washington  Street,     -     CHICAGO. 


POPULAR 


Dry  Goods  House 


LARGE   STOCK    OF 


SILKS,  DRESS    GOODS,         LIXEXS,  LACES, 

HOSIERY,       UNDERWEAR,         SHAWLS,          GLOVES, 
CARPETS,        UPHOLSTERY,          SHOES,  &c,  &c. 

GIVE    US    A    CALL. 

JAS,  ARMSTRONG  & 


ESTABLISHED    I860. 


WM.    M.    DALE, 

ar)a  JcJispcr)Sir)Cf  L-r)err)isf 


COR.    CLARK   &   MADISON   STS., 


rt^S^KSTO    £*  -" 


JAMES  H.   WALKER  &  CO., 


r\- 


Wabash  AYS.  and    Adams  St., 
CHIC^G-O. 

ATTENTION    IS  CALLED   TO   OUR    LOW    PR  ICES  -I-  'OR 


DRESS  SILKS. 


MAIL  mm  ^s  f;;:! 


Carefully   attended   to  and  SAMPLES    SENT    FREE  to 
the   Country. 


